


there's glass in the park

by desm_nt



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M, Memories, Regret, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29396427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desm_nt/pseuds/desm_nt
Summary: in the half-light of a park, where the light abhors us and the night pleases us, a young man thinks about the decision he never made.
Relationships: Michael/Pete Thelman
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	there's glass in the park

**Author's Note:**

> for Alice (as you used to call yourself).
> 
> our separation was sudden, also complicated and painful. we never became anything, not even that week where on february 14th i gave you the "key to my heart". 
> 
> this is for you, even though you may never read it.
> 
> i don't miss you like i used to, but i still have your photo.

You look at your watch wearily, tired from having been waiting for more than 3 hours on the same bench. The hands move to 7:18, the sky is painted in reddish and orange tones that give way to darker pigments.

The stillness of the park makes you rethink the idea of leaving, even though you are sure and aware that your mother will yell at you for being late home again. The people have long since gone home while you stand there, taking in the world around you: the cars that pass through the wide streets, the well-dressed men hurrying by, and, thankfully, you visualise Michael's vintage Cadillac. You remember the time the three of you saved up to buy it for him on his 19th birthday, when he was the first to get his licence.

You run to meet him before he crosses the avenue, greet him and jump in.

— So much time to get ready? I mean, because I don't see a difference.

— There were some problems with the boss, I didn't mean to keep you waiting.

You drive through town while 'Crystal Days' plays at a moderate volume on the radio. Ian McCulloch's voice is in sync with the wind swaying your hair and the curls of the young man beside you. You allow yourself to enjoy the moment, to enjoy the fresh air crashing into your face, filling your lungs, the pleasant company you crave on weekdays, the music sliding into your ears and inducing your body to move to the beat; the small moments you cherish so much.

The city grows smaller and smaller before you, colourful houses become unkempt and unstable, leafy trees stand out in large numbers along with lonely people roaming the silent streets. Your eyes come across a half-painted house, its facade under reconstruction. Michael parks the car in front of it, removes the keys, gets out of the car and walks to the wooden door, the one he always tells you the story about. You do the same a few seconds after he gets in; you close the door behind you and turn on the light.

He moved in after his parents finally kicked him out of their house like a dog into the street. He had told you that he had been suspicious of something for a long time, and when it happened he was ready. He had no place to settle down, your mother would run you both off if you invited him over, and his other friends' parents didn't think much of them. The only things he could salvage were old clothes and his precious cassettes he recorded when they were in 3rd grade. The place doesn't have much space, nor is it the best, but with the little savings from passing jobs, that's what he managed to find.

Night falls, the moon gives brightness to the unfortunate and the stars give hope to those in love. You take a seat in the brown armchair by the door, the dim illumination of the spotlights makes the situation more pleasant. You follow in his footsteps, resting your back against the backrest; you move your legs listlessly, staring at the white ceiling. There is no specific reason for your presence here today, you just enjoy the days of freedom before returning to the drudgery of the job you got at 17: back to writing down orders, taking insults from customers or getting into absurd fights with colleagues.

The atmosphere remains pleasant, without bitterness or discomfort, yet there is something deep in your soul that won't let you live. The discreet touches, nervous glances, words loaded with feelings: those details that you do not overlook, but keep them to find in them some kind of protection.

You turn slowly to look at him, he is lying with his feet flying, his eyes enclosed in lilac circles remain sealed. For a while now you don't know exactly what time it is, the time next to him seems to run, or seems to stop. You never know, nor understand what happens when the two of you are alone; but you don't care in the least. There is something you want to talk about, you want to make things clear so that you don't live a false illusion created by your own mind.

You scan the room with your eyes, the torn walls full of holes and posters of bands both known and unknown, the small table you gave her so she could have something to lean on, the clothes piled in piles next to the bathroom. The urge for a cigarette sucks you in, you feel a tingling in your fingers and a pressure in your abdomen, but you hold it in.

— Michael – you say, encouraged to speak for the first time about what you've so warily guarded.

— Mhm? – he answers without even opening his eyes. His countenance is serene, and the delicacy with which his curls fall scattered across the cushion distracts you for a moment.

— I want.. I want to talk to you about something, but I need you to look at me – the speed at which your heart races is high, you can feel it pounding in your ears, as if it were right there and not in your chest —. It's important.

You are surprised when he obeys your requests. He glues his back to the backrest as he slowly reveals his almond-shaped eyes, giving you a deep, intense brown gaze. Your throat closes, your hands tremble, but the movement is almost imperceptible; the world seems different when the words are there, on the edge of your tongue, waiting to be spoken, ready to be spoken aloud. And you stop, swallowing the words back into the recesses of your being.

His gaze is still fixed on you, now with a certain amount of confusion. — Pete, come on, won't you say something? I was just about to fall asleep, it's been a busy day. 

The swirling in your stomach grows as time goes by. You think you're going to faint from the extreme nervousness, you're anxious about the truths that will be exposed and the feelings that will seem weak under your friend's gaze. You feel terrified as you realise the power he will have over you once you express your secrets. He will be able to break them and mock them, throw them like sharp crystals that cut your skin with the utmost care. 

A smirk creeps across his face, he approaches you cautiously, trying to take your hands gently. The coldness of his envelops your skin. You want to let go and leave immediately, pretend nothing happened and run straight to Henrietta's house to calm down, tell her your sorrows and settle into her cushioned bed with a coffee and the scent of her candles. 

There is no way to describe the warm feeling that abounds on your lips, nor the way so many sleepless nights were worth it, nor the immense joy that grips your body. It was quick, fleeting, spontaneous; it was everything you ever prayed it would be.

_It happened, it really did._

You try to pinch yourself to make sure you're not in a dream. It hurts when you do, so you take the initiative to enjoy the moment. You enjoy the caresses on your face, he slides his fingers through your soft, almost freshly dyed hair, pulling you closer. Your bodies look like jigsaw puzzles, made to measure and flawless perfection. The missing parts of one were completed by the other.

As they parted, they exchanged glances, you keep the image of those eyes looking at you, sweet, passionate. You're okay with the fact that you didn't say a single word and you said it all at the same time. It wasn't the conversation you had prepared for, or imagined, let alone expected, but you're okay with it.

Peter Murphy's husky voice hits its last note and the cassette stops making that distinctive sound. A burning in your eyes, you don't want to cry, it's been a long time since you forced yourself not to. The street is full of melancholy, it's late and you're more than sure that your mother will scold you for arriving at that hour again. 

You think a lot about that day, the way things could have taken a different turn if only you hadn't got upset. The way he saw you, that look full of sadness, disappointment, confusion; _that look full of fire that still burns your skin today._ After that time things didn't continue their normal rhythm with him, the harmonious evenings where the four of you would get together to help him rebuild and decorate the house or the road trips smoking and listening to loud music: none of that came back. It's something that saddens you regularly, blaming yourself for ruining the close relationship over a simple oversight of a feeling you may well have repressed, regretting the choices you made.

You never said it outright, let alone had the goal of telling him. The pages full of romantic poems with a single addressee were hidden by those of agony and despair, but at one point they came into view and, inevitably, Michael found them. Sooner or later it was bound to happen, you think; sooner or later something would cause what you were holding back to come to light. 

A car stops a few metres away from you, the gloom makes it difficult to recognise and you try to make it out in the darkness. The dim light helps you a little more.

It's not Michael, not Henrietta, not the young Firkle who has been so supportive of you for a few weeks now, not even some of those quirky high school kids you once hung out with. It's no one, even, that you've ever had contact with.

The engine roars to life, and you drive away fairly quickly. You reach up for your watch, it's 2:56 and you're alone, in a dark park, with the memory of what could have been and heaviness in your heart.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone sees any mistakes, please let me know, your comments help me a lot.


End file.
